Trade

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  Where yonder ruddy-misted star
  Is tumbling down the placid sky
  The people’s aims were not so high
  As our heroic motives are;
  To love and trust they set a bar,
  And “Profit” was their only cry;
  They paid but little heed how nigh
  Came thundering the iron car.

  It rushed upon them and it passed
  Leaving a ghost of pain and fear
  To haunt the ruin it had made.
  But surely they have learnt at last?
  What far faint murmur can we hear
  Of frantic howling? Listen! . . . “TRADE.”

© John Le Gay Brereton